The Previously Untold Wanderings of Urwen Tanneth
by Breck
Summary: An account of Tanneth's previously forgotten role in the War of the Ring, and of her doomed love affair with a member of the Fellowship... (Want to see a 10th Walker story done right? Me too. Giving it my best shot...)
1. The Southern Fiefs

I wanted to write, but I didn't want to write one of my other fics, so... This is what you get. Enjoy.

**Note**: No, "Tanneth" is not an elvish name, nor is it based on any other of Tolkien's languages. More on that, and other things, if I ever bother to continue this thing.

* * *

Reluctant as I was to abandon the sea breeze under the swelter of mid-June heat, I was in no position to argue with the matron. In her misleadingly benevolent way, she had coaxed me out of my tranquil summer daze with talk of "duty" and "compassion". Never mind that my right leg was still unpredictably weak, the hamstring only partially healed, or that dear old Goldwine was in desperate need of having his teeth floated. No, it was my _duty_ to lay that old bit over the poor gelding's fat tongue, swing a gimp leg over his stiff old back and make my way to the far North and West. That woman must have smelled the pipeweed on me upon my previous return home, choosing this task as punishment for my weakness. Varda help me, I'm an almost entirely unsexed woman – allow me one small vice, for Eru's sake!  
  
Dear Goldwine was particularly stiff on that morning, only a day and a half's ride West of Dol Amroth – though indeed I had not come from the City of Princes, but the hills just westward. He skirted and bucked and made me appreciate his discomfort, and out of lethargy more than sympathy I let the poor beast turn with log-like motion, without a bit of bend in him. I could do little else, after all; the load was already light, and our path was relatively straight as it was. He would have to last until I could have his saddle reflocked in Linhir.  
  
Presently the little city sparkled into view across the grasslands, the rivers Gilrain and Serni set as glittering veins of silver against the summer green. I asked Goldwine for a faster trot; he glued his ears back against his neck, twisted and bucked once, angrily, by way of a "No, thank you." I sighed and didn't press the matter – we'd get there eventually, after all, and the slow pace meant I could smoke a bit as we went.  
  
We covered the distance at a steady pace, and halfway to the city walls I spotted a flotilla of small ships docked just south of the fords, apparently under repair. The swan emblems emblazoned across their standards shone golden-white in the sunlight, and I realized in that moment how far the reach of the corsairs must have extended up the coast of the bay.  
  
"The Prince sends his fleets far from home," I said to Goldwine, who responded simply by attempting to snatch a mouthful of grass from between his shuffling feet.  
  
The coast wasn't the only place where security had been tightened, I noted momentarily, approaching the walls. The gates of the city, in my experience, were usually left wide open during the daytime, casually guarded by one or two youths with nothing better to do than nap the hours away and await promotion. Now, however, I was faced with two scarred and severe men who blocked the entrance, their armour gleaming and their gazes humourless.  
  
"Hello, there lads," I said carefully, easing Goldwine to a stumbling halt.  
  
"What's your business?" one asked, approaching my mount's shoulder and catching me in his steely gaze.  
  
"Just passing through," I assured him, gesturing in the direction of the fords. "Oh – and perhaps having my horse shod, if I can find a man to do it." I patted Goldwine's shoulder.  
  
The men glanced at the poor old beast, eyebrows raised.  
  
"Oh, leave him be, he's an old man," I said. "All he needs are some new shoes and a properly-fitted saddle, and perhaps for some kind soul to take a rasp to his teeth, bless him."  
  
"Turn out your bags," the guard ordered, glaring.  
  
"Alright, alright..." I muttered, and unbuckled the saddlebags. I handed their contents down to him – dried fruit and flatbread, a hoof pick, an extra undershirt, and pouch after pouch of medicinal herbs. The guard inspected the final items suspiciously.  
  
"No chance these are poison, eh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "There're some I don't recognize."  
  
I snorted. "Believe you me, friend, I haven't the wits to poison anyone, much less the desire." I paused for a moment. "And who is there in Linhir worth poisoning, anyhow?"  
  
"Never you mind," he growled, and handed me back my things, which I carefully repacked. "Now you be getting on your way, and don't –"  
  
The other guard coughed and pointed to my left leg, where the scabbard of my sword hung down, the tip just visible under my frayed grey traveling cloak.  
  
"What's this, now?" the first guard demanded, pulling back my cloak.  
  
"Easy, there!" I protested, as Goldwine startled at the sudden assault. "Doesn't a traveler have the right to protect herself? It's nigh useless anyhow, rusty old thing."  
  
"Let's see it," the guard said, holding out his hand. I sighed and drew the blade, handing it to him, hilt-first. He tossed it from hand to hand and snorted in what I assumed was disgust.  
  
"Chipped, bent, badly balanced... and no edge on it to speak of," he muttered, testing the blade with his thumb. "I doubt you get much use out of it. I you practiced with it at all, you'd know it was scrap metal and nothing better." He handed it back to me, shaking his head.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, sheathing the instrument. "May I pass?"  
  
"Yes, go ahead," the guard sighed, and the two of them drew back from my path. I urged Goldwine forward, and after a two or three good kicks and a few rather colourful exclamations, I had him moving through the gates. I heard the guards snorting in laughter behind me, and sighed wistfully – if I was returning rather than departing, I might have spent the day laughing with them. As it was, I had a schedule to keep.  
  
It is harder to find a farrier in the southern fiefs of Gondor than one might think. The people don't tend to own horses, preferring to travel by foot or ox-drawn cart. The animals are used in the cavalry, and little else – and what use did Linhir have of a cavalry? _That's the great thing about traveling in Rohan,_ I thought to myself, as yet another blacksmith explained that he couldn't help me. _Every metalworker in the country is a farrier, first and foremost. There's a people that has its priorities straight.  
_  
It was a good two hours before I spotted my man, wandering through the crowd of merchants that worked the street markets. His flaxen hair gave him away, as did his manner of wearing it braided down his back – here was a plainsman of Rohan. He would be able to help me if anyone would.  
  
"You there, sir!" I called down to him, and he turned toward me. His eyes took in Goldwine first, seemed to appraise him, and then looked up at me.  
  
"Can I help you?" he asked, squinting. He was a rather wizened old man, but strong in the arm, and spoke Westron with the floating accent of the Rohirrim.  
  
"I'm looking for a farrier," I explained, dismounting. "Do you know where I might find one?"  
  
"Well, no," he said slowly. "But if your horse needs shoeing, I can do it."  
  
"Why, thank you," I said, and smiled. "I'm very much obliged – as is Goldwine," I added, patting the gelding's neck.  
  
The man's eyes lit up. "Goldwine! After the sixth Lord of the Mark?" he exclaimed, and approached in order to examine my horse more closely. "Hmm... What an ungainly head, and a such short neck – the beast must be ridiculously unbalanced," he murmured, but the gentle way he caressed Goldwine's cheek suggested that this was no crime.  
  
"And he's stiff in the back, _and_ he goes lame every other week," I sighed, gazing fondly at my old friend.  
  
The man looked me over, apparently taking in the straw-like bundle of yellowish hair that I wore tied behind my head. "You're of the Rohirrim too, I've no doubt," he observed.  
  
"Yes – well, sort of," I admitted. "I was born in the Westfold, but I grew up in Minas Tirith."  
  
"Oh?" He tilted his head. "That's unusual."  
  
"I suppose," I conceded. "I'm afraid I'm not very Rohirric at all. Totally assimilated by the Gondorian culture! Such a pity." I threw back my head dramatically, and he laughed.  
  
"Yes, yes, a pity indeed," he agreed. "You're how old – sixteen? Seventeen?"  
  
I silently cursed my stick-like, boyish body. "Thirty-four, actually," I corrected him.  
  
"Really!" He bit his lip, apparently resisting the urge to guffaw. "You know, I took you for a boy at first. You aren't much of a woman."  
  
"You're too kind."  
  
"What's your name, then?" he asked, taking Goldwine's reins and beginning to walk along the street.  
  
"Béruthiel," I lied, voicing the first name that came to mind, and then added, "After the mad queen," for authenticity's sake.  
  
He laughed. "How appropriate."  
  
"Hmph," I said sourly, skipping about baskets of fruit in my attempt to stay beside him. "And you?"  
  
"Haldad," he told me.  
  
"Well, I thank you, Haldad, for offering to provide my dear friend Goldwine with new shoes."  
  
"Think nothing of it."  
  
"I wonder," I said carefully, "if you'd be able to flock his saddle for me, as well? The panels have gone all flat and lumpy, and he's got a sore back as it is. I'll pay you, of course," I added quickly.  
  
"I can do it if you've got the extra wool," Haldad said, and I assured him that I did indeed.  
  
I spent a pleasant, quiet day in Haldad's company. He worked in a shed behind his little house, and Goldwine appreciated his strong, self-assured touch – I, on the other hand, appreciated the fact that the room was too smoky for the man to be bothered by the fumes from my pipe. The gelding fell asleep repeatedly during the shoeing process, and then dozed off entirely as Haldad reassembled his tack. I thought wistfully of the money I would soon be dispensing on the horse's behalf – it was the remainder of the little bit with which Father had provided me the previous autumn, when last I'd visited him.  
  
"Where're you off to?" Haldad asked me at one point during his work.  
  
"Minas Tirith," I told him. It wasn't really a lie – I would in fact be stopping there.  
  
"You have family in the city?"  
  
"Yes – my father," I said. Haldad stared at me intently for a moment, as though trying to read my thoughts.  
  
"No husband?" he said, after the pause. "No children?"  
  
I laughed. "No, none, never. I'm an old maid," I said.  
  
"Pity," he said.  
  
"Not really – I doubt any man would want to wake up to _this_ every morning," I said, and gestured to my aggressively angular face.  
  
"Oh, you're not so hideous," Haldad assured me. "You're no beauty, either, and you know it, but you're charming when you smile."  
  
"Why, thank you," I purred, pretending to blush, and we both laughed.  
  
It's men like Haldad who make me want to break my vows and speak openly about who I am. Oh, the things I might have said...! "_My father named me Urwen, but I hate that name – I like to be called Tanneth, the tag the old matron gave me_," or perhaps, "_My father isn't my real father, by the way – he found me abandoned in the wild as a babe. He's a knight of the White City, and I adore the old man to pieces_." I might even have said, "_Just as a matter of interest, I ought to tell you that I belong to a secret sisterhood of caretakers and protectors of travelers. I'm under a vow of secrecy, chastity, poverty and non-violence, and no matter what I do, you may never, ever write my name in any book, or put me in song, or make any effort to remember me at all._" ...But one cannot say these things to just anyone.  
  
Thanks to the skill and kindness of Haldad, Goldwine forded the river with new shoes and a properly-fitted saddle (and I, with significantly emptier pockets). The guards at the west gate made no fuss at all over my departure – their role was to keep foreigners out rather than in. I left Linhir behind, and with one final glance at the resplendent mast-top standards of the ships of Dol Amroth, we trotted north and west, through Lebennin and toward Losarnach, the White Mountains, and the great, ancient city that stood at their western extremity.


	2. Tower of the Guard

It turns out I kinda like Tanneth. I wanted to see where she could take things. Here's chapter two for you; hope you like it...

* * *

Goldwine's vices, usually endearing, were beginning to grate my nerves as we approached Minas Tirith from the south. At this point I really needed speed, and he flat-out refused to comply. I hadn't been worried about this first leg of the journey upon my departure – the road from Belfalas to Minas Tirith was a relatively safe one – but based on gossip gathered from the farmers of Lebennin and Losarnach, the city I approached had become a dangerous place indeed.  
  
"There was an attack on Osgiliath, only a week or so back," one man told me, as I stopped to water my old horse. "Them goblins came straight down from the black mountains, they say – almost took the city by force."  
  
I gaped at the old fellow. "A week ago?" I confirmed.  
  
"Just about, from what I gather."  
  
"Were there... were there many casualties?" I asked him.  
  
He shrugged, rubbing his hands. "So I hear. It was a tough one, alright." He brightened up suddenly. "But thank Eru for them young captains! Where'd Gondor be without men like them?"  
  
I had no interest in young captains; my concern was for an old knight who ought to have been granted his retirement years ago. I admit I didn't allow Goldwine as much time as he would have liked at that particular watering hole. Suddenly the need to find my father was altogether more pressing than my horse's desire to drink.  
  
My preferred route to the city was to travel north from Linhir, almost as far as the White Mountains, and to then turn eastward to ford the shallow tributaries of the rivers Sirith and Erui. I did not, at this point, appreciate Goldwine's habit of wanting to roll in anything cool and wet, and after two or three crossings we were not at all pleased with one another's attitudes. I sweated and puffed to keep the old beast moving, and he did his very best to disappoint me, twisting and snorting and scurrying backwards with his head to the ground. We progressed a good deal more swiftly once we were both too tired to fight.  
  
At long last I reached the southernmost gate of Rammas Echor, the wall surrounding the Fields of the Pelennor. The great barrier was even now under repair, though as I watched the men hammering away above me, I could not help but wonder if this was too little, too late.  
  
The guards at the wall did nothing to slow my progress, though one or two glanced down at me, perhaps to make sure that an orc hadn't suddenly learned to ride a horse. Unlike Linhir's guards, these men had dealt with real threats, and would not waste their time on harmless women intent on nothing more devious than a family reunion.  
  
The sight of the White City, glittering before us beyond the wall, was the one thing that could have stirred my old horse into a gallop. His ears pricked forward and his hooves began to drum faster and faster against the hardened earth of the fields. This was no romantic notion, no stirring of his soul brought on by the legendary sight – no, he simply knew from experience to recognize Minas Tirith as _rest_ and _food_.  
  
The guards at the gate of the city itself were a good deal less obliging than those at the wall had been. They stared down at me from their vantage point atop the outermost wall of the city, and my neck began to cramp from squinting back up at them.  
  
"You say your father lives here?" one asked skeptically. I praised myself for being unrecognizable in my own hometown – the matron would be proud, indeed.  
  
"Yes – Sador's his name. Perhaps you're familiar with him?"  
  
The guard seemed to think this over for a moment, and I despaired that my greatest fears would be realized – he would tell me my father was dead, and that I was orphaned for the second time in my life.  
  
"Not personally, no. I'll have to ask someone," he said at last, and disappeared from view. Another guard appeared in his place, glaring down at me.  
  
"Hello, there," I called, smiling. "Nice weather for June, isn't it?"  
  
His reply consisted of silence and an increasingly hostile stare. I grimaced and looked away. The inhabitants of Minas Tirith were certainly not the friendliest of people.  
  
My fears were all abated in a moment. My father's face appeared above the battlements, eager and smiling, and my heart leapt straight up to him.  
  
"Urwen! What a lovely surprise!" he cried, then turned to speak to the guards. In a moment the gates were rolling open and inward, and as soon as the space between the great wooden behemoths was wide enough, I sent Goldwine trotting through into the spacious square beyond.  
  
Sador descended the stairs from the wall as fast as his dear old legs could carry him. As he ran up to me I saw him properly and gasped, leaping from Goldwine's back in an instant and running to meet him.  
  
"Your arm! Oh, Father, what's become of your hand?" I cried, and laid my hands on the stub of his left arm, which now ended just above the elbow.  
  
"It's nothing, really," he assured me, stroking my hair with his right hand. I searched his eyes suspiciously - the man was inclined to lie about the severity of his injuries - but he simply smiled. "It doesn't hurt half as much as you'd think, dear. I got lots of use out of it beforehand. Just be grateful it wasn't my head!"  
  
He laughed, and I forced myself to laugh with him - though a significant part of me wanted to cry. 

"You ought not to fight anymore, Father, honestly. You're too old for this; you've done your time."  
  
He shrugged and shook his head. "I'll have no opportunity to retire in the near future, I can tell you that. War is on our doorstep. Although perhaps they won't send me in too often, now that I'm a cripple," he said, and chuckled at the thought. I drew him into a tight hug, more to hide the treacherous tears that had managed to pool under my eyes than to reassure him.

"Now, what's your business here?" he asked as I released him.  
  
"Oh, just passing through, really," I said lightly, turning back to collect Goldwine's reins. (The horse hadn't moved an inch, naturally.)  
  
"I hope you'll be able to stay a while." Sador led me up the road toward the second gate now, his right arm around my shoulders.  
  
"Well..." I sighed. "Not too long, I suspect. I've business beyond the Misty Mountains."  
  
"That's quite some distance!" Sador exclaimed. "You're not traveling alone, are you?"  
  
"Of course I am, Father – you know how it is," I grumbled. "There aren't enough of us to spare two for a single mission. And besides, it's easier to go unseen when I'm alone."  
  
Sador shook his head firmly. "No," he said. "That's not acceptable. I'll have to go with you."  
  
"Father, really...!"  
  
"I won't hear a word about it. That's a dangerous rode to travel at the best of times – and these certainly are not the best of times," he added, regarding me seriously.  
  
"Father, Gondor needs you. The Steward needs you."  
  
He snarled and spat on the road. "The Steward is nothing to me," he muttered.  
  
"The people, then," I said, exasperated. "Father, really! I can't protect you, out in the wild."  
  
"What do you mean, you can't protect me?" he demanded. "It's your _job_ to protect people like me! That's what you _do_! And besides," he added, "it's _me_ who will be protecting _you_. That's the whole point."  
  
"Father, I hate to be the one to tell you, but you're a one-armed old man," I said bluntly. "Just how much protecting were you planning on doing?"  
  
He _harrumphed_ and played his lips along his teeth. "I _will_ be going with you, whether you like it or not – at very least I'll know you made it safely to wherever it is you're headed."  
  
"And when we get there...? You plan on making your way back, all alone?"  
  
"Well, perhaps I can stay there until you finish your work," he grumbled.  
  
"I don't think the Eldar appreciate uninvited guests hanging about for extended periods of time," I said.  
  
"Aha! So you're off to see the elves, are you?"  
  
_Damn_. I always let my guard down around Father.  
  
"Yes, yes – but you won't be getting any more out of me, because I don't know anything more about it," I told him. "All the matron did was assign me a destination and tell me that the matter was very serious indeed."  
  
The man became pensive as we passed through the second gate. "You'll be attending to a party, I suppose?"  
  
"Well, that's the usual routine," I said. "I won't play guessing games with you, though, Father. The less you think you know, the better."  
  
He snorted. "I know more than you could ever dream," he said, with false haughtiness. I found myself laughing with him - legitimately, this time - and despite no change whatsoever in the circumstances, I was feeling less worried.  
  
I had Goldwine settled and stabled quickly. The city mews were embarrassingly underused, with less than half the stalls occupied. The old gelding received a box fit for a steed high above his station, but took note of nothing in it besides the manger. I quickly stored away his near-decrepit tack, and went to find my father sitting on the fourth wall, which was deserted at that time and afforded a fine view of the Pelennor.  
  
"I brought you some things..." I began, sitting down next to him.  
  
"Oh, come, now, I'm fine –" he protested, seeing the herbs and ointments in my arms.  
  
"Quit your whining, it'll do you good," I scolded, batting him affectionately across the ear. "I want to know you've been properly taken care of. That's no trifling wound, that."  
  
He grumbled, but allowed me to unwrap the bandages on his stub. The end had been well sewn up, the flap of flesh from the back of his arm drawn up across the bone to close the wound. It was swollen, of course, but not infected, and appeared to have stopped bleeding entirely, though fluid was still slowly draining from certain open points. I examined the patches of broken skin carefully. The flesh hadn't healed much yet, but scar tissue was beginning to develop nearer to the surface. Overall, what I found was reassuring. My father would survive this injury. I provided him with a few vials of ointment nonetheless, as well as a herbal pain remedy, telling him to clean himself daily and to see a healer immediately if it the situation deteriorated.  
  
"Anything else, O Mistress Healer?" he asked sarcastically.  
  
"Yes – don't you ever fight again," I said, tapping his nose with my finger and regarding him through narrowed eyes.  
  
He snorted. "If the city's never attacked, I promise not to fight," he assured me, his voice dripping with irony.  
  
"Oh, Father, be serious – you can't even hold a shield."  
  
"No," he sighed. "But you've been away a long time, my dear. The way Gondor sees things these days, I _can_ still hold a sword. So fight I must."  
  
I sighed and stared down into my hands. I really wanted my pipe - but Sador thought smoking a disgusting, barbaric northern practice, so I'd have to do without. If I wasn't forbidden to draw attention to myself, I swear I would have marched straight up to the Citadel and demanded that my old man be given the rest he'd earned. As it was, I could only lay my head on his shoulder and murmer, "You've done so much, Father."  
  
He kissed my head gently and pressed his cheek into my tangled yellow hair. "As have you, my love," he whispered. I closed my eyes and inhaled the approaching evening, in and out, floating up and away from war, pain, and all consequences of Men's short-sitedness.

I wonder, why was it that here, in the intimate company of my adopted father, my thoughts turned to a mother-figure, away in the south? The mind, as they say, is a funny thing...

* * *

There is a history to me, as there is to all things. The first of my kind – the first of the Elignias, as we now call ourselves – was said to be part-elven, a descendent of one of the lost companions of Nimrodel and of the man who must have loved her. It was she who began the practice of taking in lost or weary travelers, of nursing them in peace and tranquility within the hills of Belfalas. Hers was a magic medicine, as much for the soul as for the body. Her wisdom was passed on to other young women, but to no men – for she was very frightened of them, indeed. These days I wonder what the story was behind her fear of men, as the legends speak nothing of it – but of course, the Elignias are permitted no recorded history of their actions, so wondering is all I'll ever do.  
  
About a hundred years later, one of the followers of this original wise woman must have made her way down to the sea, or so the legend tells us. They say that Ulmo himself revealed himself to her, and that she was filled with awe. (Well, really – who wouldn't be?) He spoke to her in a strange tongue, but she found she understood him. He told her to devote herself to others, to live outside of herself, desiring neither material wealth nor physical comfort. He told her to be neither woman nor man, to abandon the idea of marriage, and to live in utmost humility. In this manner, through the fateful woman's teachings, the modern doctrine of the Elignias was eventually born (though I must admit it's been well and truly warped over the years), and our own secret language drawn from the speech of Ulmo.  
  
It had been my father who discovered them for me. He had been wounded in a fall near the coast, and try as they might, his men had been unable to heal him or carry him to safety. Fate had proved his rescuer – two of the Elignias sisters had wandered by and spied his party in distress. Sador alone was taken into the hills, and there he stayed until he was well enough to make the journey home to Minas Tirith. I was nine years old at the time of his return, and did not let him rest until he'd broken his promise to be silent about the matter and proceeded to tell me everything.  
  
I was an ugly, skinny, ungainly child, bony and angular and entirely masculine in appearance. I understood from a very early age that the boys found me unattractive, and felt fated to spend my days alone in some tower, reading from old dusty tomes (for such was the fate of an ugly, unmarriageable woman, I believed). The prospect of being one of the Elignias – of seeing the world, of helping people, of going on adventures and, above all, of never having to worry about fickle young boys again in my life – seemed impossibly wonderful. At the age of twelve, despite my father's protests, I left to join them – _and_, I thought, as I sat with Sador on the wall that evening, _I have never regretted it for a moment._  
  
It hurts me to say that it was not a conviction that remained with me through the rest of my days. ...But I'm getting ahead of myself. What's been said is enough, for the time being. 


	3. The Journey West

Hooray, it's chapter three! Thanks to all you folks who have reviewed. I'm quite pleased with the reaction - I honestly thought people wouldn't like this story, considering its a wee bit AU.

* * *

Perhaps I'm attracted to irrationally stubborn individuals. Besides my misguided choice in a horse – any sensible traveler would have sent Goldwine to the knackers years ago – I'd also landed myself with an unbelievably obstinate father. Try as I might, I could not dissuade the old fellow from tagging along with me for the rest of my journey. This was bound to become problematic, seeing as the keys to surviving the passage into Eriador were secrecy and skill in defending one's self. While Sador would surely do his best, I doubted whether his swordsmanship would benefit from the recent amputation of his arm. He pointed out, however, that he wouldn't likely be much safer in Minas Tirith, a statement with which I had to agree, albeit reluctantly. It seemed my work would begin a good deal sooner than I'd thought.  
  
If Goldwine traveled badly on solo journeys, it was nothing compared to his attitude when forced into close and constant company with another horse. Never mind that Father's mount was a mare – Goldwine had been gelded very early in life, poor thing, and so took no interest in potentially amorous liaisons. Instead he would pin his ears back and aim kicks and bites at his hapless companion, who was too sweet and simple-minded to retaliate. In the end, Sador had to ride quite a ways in front of us, relying on Goldwine's laziness to prevent the gelding from catching up to him.  
  
I suppose I ought to provide some details regarding our journey through Anórien, and then through the East- and Westfold of Rohan, though this segment of the trip was mercifully uneventful. We kept a good pace, riding during the day and camping at night, and though I had to be extra vigilant on his behalf, I appreciated my father's company. He knew this region of the world relatively well, as he'd traveled widely when he was younger and when doing so was less of a risk.  
  
"I've never been beyond the Gap of Rohan, though," he admitted to me one evening, as I cooked our supper over a small fire.  
  
"Really?" I said, though this was well known to me. I didn't mind letting Father retell his stories.  
  
"Yes." He lay back in the grass. "The farthest West I've ever been is to where you were born... That was only a month or so after Urwen died – my wife, I mean. She who would have been your mother..."  
  
I waited patiently through the pause, sneaking a finger into the pot for a taste of the soup I was making – and then withdrawing it quickly when I was burned.  
  
"It was a fever, you know – she did outlive the child." He sighed wistfully as I sucked on my finger and resisted the urge to curse loudly. "The poor boy... I would have done well with a son... but I don't blame him for her death. All babes are innocent."  
  
"I doubt," I said carefully, "whether you would have been out traveling if she'd lived. You'd never have found me. I'd have died."  
  
"That's probably true," Sador said, and sighed. He didn't speak for the rest of the evening, and went to sleep early. Thank Eru for that – I could only smoke while he slept.  
  
The Gap of Rohan wasn't always so dangerous, nor the crossing of the Fords of Isen so treacherous, as they were in those days. The only rational choice was to ford the river during the day – if orcs were about, they would be in hiding – but we would attract a great deal of attention to ourselves. I assumed, as one did in those days, that the darkness of Mordor did not extend to the Gap, as this was guarded by the wise wizard Saruman who watched from the mighty Tower of Orthanc. For all my travels, there were still many things I didn't understand about my world – particularly those things involving beings as enigmatic and complex as wizards.  
  
The attack came swiftly and unexpectedly, the evening after we'd forded the Isen. In the dark it was difficult to number the orcs, but I suspect that there weren't more than a dozen. Still, Sador and I were outnumbered. I realize now that we were lucky Saruman hadn't by that point perfected his experimental manipulations of the orcs, as this would have meant we'd have encountered the far more fearsome uruk-hai rather than these snarling creatures. I do not doubt, however, that these were servants of Saruman – a thought which did not occur to me at the time.  
  
Goldwine was not unacquainted with orcs. He became a tiger in the face of our attackers, snorting and thrashing and charging in fury at the creatures that had burst from the forest alongside the path. Had they shot at us from amongst the trees, we might have been dead – as it was, they made the mistake of underestimating my horse.  
  
Goldwine trampled two of them for me, and in the rush I was able to ignore that most disturbing sound of snapping bones. I dropped the reins immediately – they were kept knotted for just such an occasion – and drew my sword. The weapon was indeed poorly made and incapable of holding an edge, and so I tended to use it more as a bludgeon than a blade. The orc who made the unfortunate decision of grabbing my leg met his fate quickly and noisily, his skull crushed on impact as I hammered him with the weapon.  
  
I killed two others in the madness – one stabbed through the face; the other was bashed across the ear – before the survivors made off into the woods. Only after calming Goldwine did I take note of the rather nasty cut across my right forearm – it would have to be cleaned, perhaps stitched as well. Sador was having his own troubles; his dear mare had been thoroughly spooked by the attack, her eyes rolling wildly as she danced frantically up and down the trail.  
  
"Come on – before they come back," I panted, nodding in the direction I intended us to take. Sador nodded, though his face was white with shock. Goldwine retained enough of his battle-fierceness to grant me a gallop, and Father's mare followed him willingly, seeing the other member of her species as her best hope for protection. We thundered down the trail as fast as our mounts would allow, riding on well into the night, and only stopping for breath when the trail turned northward.  
  
"We ought to be safe here," I told my father. "A bit of sleep, and an early start tomorrow – that's what'll best serve us now. I'll watch for a bit, just in case they were following, though I doubt they'll make it this far before morning."  
  
Sador was restless and pale from the encounter.  
  
"Never thought we'd make it this far from Mordor, only to be attacked," he muttered. "No road is safe anymore."  
  
"We're alright," I said, patting his shoulder. "These times will come and go, like all others before them."  
  
He sighed. "I'm sorry you had to kill," he said. "How many was it – three? So you'll be fasting now, I suppose."  
  
"Yes, for three days."  
  
Sador frowned. "I thought it was only half a day for an orc. Half a day for an orc, a whole day for a man."  
  
"No, not anymore," I said wearily. "The matron had that rule altered, and rightfully so. All life is equal."  
  
"Bah," Sador scoffed, and spit in the grass. I was inclined to agree with him to some extent – though perhaps, philosophically, there was no difference between an orc's life and a man's life, no one who had fought them both would consider the experiences at all similar.  
  
"Well, that's the way of us," I said lightly. "Non-violence in a sense, I suppose – more of a reactive policy than a proactive one, if you ask me. We see killing as excusable, so long as we pay for it afterwards."  
  
"It's inevitable that you should have to defend yourself," Sador said. "This is not just. You need sustenance. Come on, then, eat – no one will know."  
  
"No?" I dug a twisted twine necklace out from beneath my shirt and held it away from my neck so that Father could see. "They won't notice if I come home with this thing broken?"  
  
Sador snorted. "That's nothing but superstition. It won't break if you have a bite of bread."  
  
"I don't know," I said, burying the necklace in my shirt once more. "There was a girl who broke her vows once, when I was younger – silly young thing. She slept with one of the men she was escorting, and came home terrified, with her cord inexplicably broken."  
  
"Inexplicably? I doubt it. She probably tugged at it too much, being nervous. Or perhaps it was torn during the act itself," he suggested wryly.  
  
"Well, I'm not going to play the part of a mystic. I don't know what happened exactly, but that girl is Elignias no more. As for me, I'd rather not lose my job over a snack," I said.  
  
Sador shook his head, then rolled out his blanket and went to sleep. I cursed silently to myself. It was most inconvenient to have to go so long without eating, especially when we might be attacked again at any moment. If present circumstances were any indication, I'd be killing and fasting more often than ever. I sighed and stuffed my pipe. At least I had an activity that would keep my mouth occupied.  
  
I glanced up at the sky. Clouds blew about, here and there, but many stars managed to shine between them. I wondered, _what is it that that silly girl found in a man that was worth giving up her way of life for?_ I couldn't understand it. Certainly I'd met attractive men before, and on wilderness journeys a month or more in length, almost all fellows eventually realize I'm female. I'd always been able to say "no", though. It wasn't any more difficult for me than saying "no" to a meal after having killed an orc – perhaps less so, even.  
  
I sighed and blew a rather wispy smoke ring into the night. _I guess some people just have the wrong priorities._


	4. Eriador

I know things are moving slowly... We'll get to the juicy stuff eventually...

* * *

I doubt that my account of our journey properly emphasizes the distance and duration of our travels. In all, it was approximately one hundred days from the time we left Minas Tirith to the point when we first met our hosts. We could, perhaps, have traveled more quickly, but considering Father's recent injury (and my horse's reluctance to cover any great distance at speed), we kept to a more leisurely pace. Admittedly, this increased the danger of our progress – a fact which tormented me constantly as we made our way westward and northward – but there was little I could do to ameliorate the situation. Sador's arm would not grow back, and Goldwine would not wake up one morning to find himself transformed into one of the Mearas. We would have to make do with the options we had.  
  
We forded the Glanduin – or, rather, the Gwathló, as it became at that point – at the ruins of Tharbad. It is a wickedly cold river, as its tributaries spring from high in the Misty Mountains. Naturally, Goldwine decided it would be a lovely spot for a roll, and so I was dumped unceremoniously into the water along with my food and blankets. I ought to have drowned him right there, the stupid beast. At least Sador got a laugh out of it.  
  
From there we followed the course of the River Loudwater, more or less, though on occasion it became more convenient to follow an old trail through the woods. Sador had no idea where we were going, really, and it was amusing to leave him in suspense. He continuously tried to trick me into telling him our destination, but subtlety had never been his strong point.  
  
"_This_ would be a nice area for elves," he would say – though of course he had no idea, never having seen an elf in his life.  
  
"I suppose," I replied airily on such occasions.  
  
"What, you don't think it's secretive enough?" he demanded. "Or perhaps not sufficiently wooded – these forests are not as old as others I've seen. Elves prefer ancient forests, don't they?"  
  
"Some do," I said vaguely.  
  
"And what's that forested area they have up north – is it Doriath?"  
  
Here he was appealing to my pride, hoping I would correct him for "foolishly" naming a lost forest kingdom of the First Age, thinking that perhaps I'd reveal the name of a more modern forest kingdom in the process. Of course, he had no idea whether such a thing even existed, but the man was inclined to try anything. As well, he ought not to have counted on my pride – or lack thereof.  
  
"Might be," I replied innocently, and he snorted in frustration. It was so satisfying to see him foiled, bless his heart.  
  
I don't know whether Goldwine is an irrational creature, or simply one who does his best to get on my nerves. He has no fear of orcs – in fact he seems to relish the chance to strike them down – but at the first sniff of elves, he panics. Now, perhaps it isn't _true_ panic; perhaps it's simply a scheming desire to make a fool of his mistress. Seeing as he's a simple horse of unknown lineage, one would be inclined to doubt whether he could come up with such a plan – I, on the other hand, suspect he's smarter than he wants me to believe.  
  
Goldwine sensed the elves before I did, of course. All of a sudden, his ears stood straight, his muscles tensed, and his eyes rolled wildly. Father's mare began to look "spooky" as well – more as a reaction to Goldwine's behaviour than to any perception of danger on her part, I've no doubt.  
  
"Easy... easy, there," I murmured, feeling the gelding prepare to bolt. I softened the pressure on his mouth, and patted his shoulder reassuringly.  
  
"Is everything alright?" Sador whispererd. "Should we proceed?"  
  
"Just a minute... just a minute..." I continued to use my slowest, gentlest voice, and sunk deep into my horse's saddle, hoping he'd sense my easy, secure weight over him and feel calm once more.  
  
No such luck. Goldwine threw his head in the air and snorted, grabbing the bit between his old yellow teeth. He reared halfway up onto his back legs, then began to scuttle sideways toward Sador.  
  
"Keep her out of the way!" I told my father, desperately hoping he wouldn't fall off his horse. I sat as heavily and steadily as I could on the beast's back, and repeatedly applied firm pressure against the bars of his mouth, but it was no good. Goldwine was determined to cause a scene. He suddenly decided to scurry backward without regard for where he was going, and so ended up running rump-first into a tree. This set him off entirely. He bucked and thrashed and reared and twisted, and I am rather pleased to say I stayed on him for the better part of twenty seconds. However, I soon found myself tumbling through the air to land gracelessly in the moss and leaves of the forest floor.  
  
I was unhurt, of course – one has to know how to fall properly if she wants to ride a horse as obnoxious as Goldwine. I landed on my shoulder and rolled, and almost managed to come out of the roll on my feet – but, being somewhat overbalanced, I ended up falling on my own rump instead.  
  
"Oh, curse the day you were born, you stupid animal..." I muttered, dusting myself off.  
  
"Ahem..." Sador coughed, and I looked up at him. His gaze was directed further up the trail.  
  
_Oh, hell,_ I thought, and turned my own gaze to follow his. Indeed, half- invisible amongst the green shadows, stood two tall, ebony-haired creatures, seemingly identical, radiating ethereal beauty and grace. They regarded me with detached interest.  
  
"Um... my horse, you see... Sorry..." I muttered. Naturally, Goldwine was by this point as quiet as a lamb, and looked about ready to go up and greet our visitors himself. The two of them continued to stare at me, less with disdain than with an apparent lack of surprise – it was as though they simply expected no better of me. _Elves!  
_  
"You are Tanneth of the Elignias." It was more of a statement than a question, though the voice that spoke was floating and soft.  
  
"Yes, yes – I apologize for the undignified entrance," I said, standing up, then added, "as well as for any damage to branches or underbrush caused by my horse."  
  
Of course this was intended as a joke, but the Eldar have a different sense of humour than the Edain.  
  
"I do not see what you mean," the elf said, looking about for broken branches, and Sador held back a laugh. "Nonetheless, I welcome you. I am obliged to escort you to your destination."  
  
"Which is...?" Sador asked.  
  
The elf regarded him curiously. "Imladris, of course," he said.  
  
"Ha!" Sador exclaimed, triumphant.  
  
"Oh, shut up, you've never heard of it," I muttered, and went to collect Goldwine's reins.  
  
"Who is your companion?" the other elf asked. "You must identify him – we cannot lead strangers to the house of Elrond."  
  
"Him? He's Sador, son of Algund – a man of Gondor, but of no noble lineage," I said, feeling rather spiteful.  
  
"Your guide?" the elf asked.  
  
"No indeed!" I snorted, and Sador rolled his eyes. "He's my father. He felt obliged to escort me to Rivendell."  
  
The two elves glanced back and forth between us, no doubt looking for a family resemblance between the tall, dark-haired man and the short, scrawny yellow-haired woman.  
  
"I'm adopted," I whispered, to avoid them having to make any awkward suggestions.  
  
"_Ah_," they murmured, and nodded.  
  
"You will follow us on foot," one of the elves told us.  
  
"What – and leave the horses behind?"  
  
"No," he said patiently, as though talking to a child. "You may lead the horses. But we will proceed, as I have said, on foot."  
  
"Right," I muttered, and drew Goldwine's reins over his head. Sador dismounted and took his mare's reins in his one hand, and together we followed our hosts into the woods.  
  
"How far is it to Rivendell?" I asked. "I must admit I've never been there myself, though I've got a general idea of how to get there."  
  
"What? You mean you didn't know where we were going?" Sador demanded, incensed.  
  
"It will take us no more than three hours to reach the valley," one elf told me, ignoring my father, "assuming we encounter no... obstacles."  
  
"Oh? And what obstacles might those be?" I wondered, making my way carefully amongst the roots and fallen branches.  
  
"There have been sightings of some rather... _distasteful_ characters about," he replied.  
  
"Namely...?"  
  
"The Nazgûl of Minas Morgul," he replied, then looked rather smug upon seeing that this name meant nothing to me.  
  
"Care to elaborate?" I sighed.  
  
"They have disguised themselves as nine riders in black," he said. "Surely you've heard of them – Ringwraiths, perhaps?"  
  
The name did sound familiar. "Nine..." 

"'Nine rings for the mortal men, doomed to die'," the elf quoted, and I suddenly remembered the somewhat obscure poem... _I must have read it as a child, _I decided.  
  
"Indeed," the other elf said. "But you shall find these nine very reluctant to die – they are bent on killing, and I doubt very much that you have the skills to defend yourself against them."  
  
"You're probably right," I conceded. "But this is all very disturbing. Servants of _Sauron_? In _Eriador_?"  
  
"It is not a random invasion," the elf told me. "They have a mission. They are seeking –"  
  
But his companion cut him off with a warning glance.  
  
"Excuse me. I am not presently at liberty to divulge such information," the elf apologized, averting his gaze respectfully.  
  
This marked the end of our conversation with our hosts, though I didn't shrink from talking with Goldwine.  
  
"What do _you_ think they were seeking? Hmm?" I asked. He shook his head and snorted – then suddenly turned and tried to bite my shoulder, his ears pinned back flat. I slapped his muzzle in irritation.  
  
"Ungrateful mongrel!" I muttered... though, in a moment, my hand had migrated to his shoulder and was patting him absently.  
  
I wish I could say that I sensed, instinctively, that my arrival at Rivendell would signal a great change in my life. That would be romantic, and mysterious, and entertaining for you – as well as somewhat satisfying for me. I have to be honest, though – the item at the forefront of my mind at that moment was the idea of sleeping in a real bed for the first time in months. On the other hand, considering what I would be experiencing over the _next_ several months, I suppose it was wise of me to value such a luxury.


	5. Rivendell

Yeah! It's chapter five! I'm having so much fun with this story... 

Might as well do this now: I don't own anything. Not one thing. Okay, maybe Tanneth, but that's it. Don't sue me, I beg of you! 

BTW, I did the "Mary Sue Litmus Test" for Tanneth, and she got a score of about thirty (depending on whether you consider Goldwine a "special pet" or not, based on their description). I can't believe it! I've created a borderline "Sue"! This is so out of character for me... [evil cackle]

* * *

Of course, there are very few people to whom I have tried to describe my first glimpse of Rivendell – in truth, I ought not to have told anyone at all. Though I have very rarely tried to express the image in words, it is one that has remained with me for all these years; a sort of soft, happy memory, almost like a childhood dream. I don't believe I marveled in any sort of affected way at the architectural wonder that is the House of Elrond – I'm really not sufficiently educated to appreciate such things – nor did I feel the reverent wonder that comes from realizing one has come upon a place renowned in legend. I simply breathed, and felt rested; for there is peace there, a sort of floating softness distilled into the air and the trees. A wise hobbit would one day tell me that his cousin had said of the place: "Time doesn't seem to pass here: it just is." I could not describe it better myself, and so my depiction of the elven refuge will end here.  
  
I held Goldwine's reins tight, close to his chin, for fear that he would try to nibble at the leaves and grass – an action that would have struck me as entirely irreverent in such a place. However, it seemed he only wanted to look about him, nicker softly, and sniff. Perhaps he, too, felt the sweet calm, and the stillness; I doubt this, though – it would have been a sentiment entirely out of character for the old brute, bless his heart.  
  
Presently I perceived another elf approaching our group at a rather hurried pace. I didn't see him until he was quite near; the elves move so softly, so gracefully, that one can hardly distinguish their movement from the swaying of the trees all around them. He came up to our guides, who obviously recognized him, and immediately began to speak in a hushed, anxious tone.  
  
"What are they saying?" Sador whispered, from behind me.  
  
"I don't know," I said, though I strained to catch the elf's words. Alas, he was speaking in his own tongue, and I found myself quite incapable of following his speech. I could read elvish languages well enough, but when it came to the spoken words, the best I could do was distinguish Quenya from Sindarin. (In this case, the three elves were speaking Quenya.) Their conversation ended quickly, and the newcomer seemed to excuse himself with a sort of half-bow; then he was off into the dappled shadows once more.  
  
"Is there trouble?" I asked our guides.  
  
"There is news," one told me. "It is not altogether clear, yet, whether this news is good or bad. Certainly it is disturbing, but nothing tragic has occurred."  
  
"No one's been hurt?" I confirmed.  
  
"No," said the other elf. "No – in fact, several may have been saved. An elf of Imladris – Glorfindel is his name – has driven three of the Nine from the Bridge of Mitheithel."  
  
"Mitheithel... You mean, the River Hoarwell?"  
  
"So it is called among the men of the North," the elf said grimly. "You appreciate, then, that this is no great distance from Rivendell."  
  
"Indeed; in fact I would have said it was no more than a day or two's ride from here. But when did this happen?" I wondered.  
  
"Earlier today," the elf said, and upon seeing the surprise so evident in my countenance, added: "The Lord Elrond tells us so, and his gaze is long and keen. Little takes place in these parts without his observation."  
  
"Are we in danger?" Sador whispered to me.  
  
"No, Father – I doubt there is any safer place to be," I reassured him, though in fact I was rather shaken by the news, despite being somewhat ignorant of the nature of these infamous "Nine". I then asked the two elves: "Will you be leaving to pursue them, as well?"  
  
"No," one said, shaking his head. "We have business in the North, with the Dúnedain. Indeed, we hoped to leave yesterday, but our father sent us to ensure your safe arrival upon learning that the Nazgûl were abroad."  
  
"Your father? You mean – Lord Elrond?" I asked, and they both nodded. I admit I was somewhat embarrassed – our escorts had been the sons of the Elf- lord all along! It seemed too great an honour to be bestowed upon a person of my humble origins.  
  
"Well... Thank you very much, my lords," I said, and bowed to them. "You've honoured us with your grace and guidance, and we'll not soon forget it."  
  
"And we're sorry to have delayed your departure," Sador added. His voice came rather shyly; he was somewhat out of his element among such high and lovely creatures.  
  
"It shall do us no harm," said one. "We can ride swiftly and secretly, and we shall soon make up for lost time. As for you two, you may follow my brother to the stables, where you might rest your horses."  
  
We thanked him again, and then followed his brother, who had already set off down the winding, grassy path. Upon reaching the stables, I felt that our steeds ought to have been humbled by their new stable-mates: these glossy creatures that called the elves masters were so light, so lanky, so very noble in their carriage. Their faces were dished, their eyes bright and deep, and their nostrils flared and lined with delicate pink skin. Their canons, in my opinion, seemed undesirably long, but no doubt there is some elvish magic in the creatures that keeps their legs from snapping. As it was, Goldwine took no notice of the beasts, but almost escaped my grasp in his hurry to reach the manger in his new stall.  
  
"You don't deserve such luxury, you great brute," I muttered to him, yanking the bit from his mouth before he could choke himself on sweet oats. I helped Sador untack his own mare, as well, and then picked the hooves of both our mounts while my father gave them a quick brush-down. The locks on the stalls seemed new and unused, and I realized that none of the other horses' stalls were bolted – it seemed the elves' animals were free to wander, or perhaps they were too obedient to attempt an escape.  
  
I shan't tell you much about the rest of that day – October the eleventh, it was – as not much else happened. Sador was far more tired from the journey than he'd let on, and wanted nothing better than to sit among the trees and nap. I sat beside him, grateful to have arrived safely at such a lovely place, and not yet eager to start any adventures.

* * *

We did not meet Lord Elrond until the fifteenth of October. It was then that he requested a brief audience with Sador and me, and we were led to his private chambers by a soft-spoken elf, apparently younger than any of the others we'd met (although he was no doubt ten times older than me or my father).  
  
Elrond was a commanding creature indeed; not frightening, really, but one who inspired reverence and awe. He was taller than a man, but slender; his face was ageless, neither old nor young, but there was such depth and wisdom in his bright grey eyes that I felt I might drown in them if I looked on for too long.  
  
"Tanneth," he said, and I bowed to him, as did Sador. "I have called you into my presence for two reasons. First, I would like to inquire as to why you have not made the journey to Imladris alone."  
  
"Oh... I'm sorry for that, my lord," I said, averting my gaze. "Sador's my father, you see, and he was concerned for my safety..."  
  
"I was under the impression that the Elignias did not need the protection of invalids – begging your pardon, of course," he added, to Sador.  
  
"I'll answer for that," Sador said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "Of course she didn't need protection. _She_ had to watch out for _me_, every step of the way, and I'm sure I became more of a hindrance than a help. It was just a father's selfish worry, that's all. I couldn't stand to let her go so far, all alone – not when the world's so dangerous, as it is these days."  
  
Elrond seemed to consider this, though I couldn't bring myself to watch his face.  
  
"Understandable," he said at last. "I, too, have a daughter, and I would have to be very desperate indeed to allow her to travel any great distance without an escort. The difference is, of course, that _your_ daughter has been well trained to look after herself in the wild, while mine – though by no means lacking in courage – has generally devoted herself to the study of less brutish skills. However," he continued; and now he spoke to me rather than Sador, "there is another thing I should like to ask you, and for this question I must insist that your father leave us alone."  
  
Sador didn't argue, and excused himself quickly from our company. Once the Elf-lord considered the man sufficiently far away (or so I assume), he spoke again.  
  
"I should like you to tell me," he began, "what you know about the Elignias- Mîr's methods of discovering my desire to be granted the company of one of the sisters."  
  
I was surprised that he knew the official title of the matron; the language of our people is not, after all, elvish in origin. I quickly regained my composure.  
  
"Well... not much at all, really," I admitted. "I suppose I always thought you'd sent a messenger to request it, or something. That's the normal procedure, in my experience."  
  
"I sent no messenger," Elrond told me. "I would have, if things had come together more slowly. As it was, your matron sent you based on some sort of premonition."  
  
"Oh!" I didn't quite know how to respond to this. "Philindraphar is very wise, of course – but she's of the race of Men, just like me. I don't see how she could have known..."  
  
"No," Elrond said reflectively, and turned away from me for a moment. "I have my theories, of course. I have been observing the sisterhood for quite a while now. Yes –" Here he stopped me from protesting. (_You aren't supposed to concern yourself with us!_) "I know it is not among the intentions of the Elignias to be an object of study, and you can rest assured that I have never recorded my observations."  
  
I relaxed a little.  
  
"You are an anomaly, you creatures," he said, more to himself than to me. "Your role in history has gone altogether unnoticed, but who knows how many lives you have saved? Who can say how many wars you people have fought in – and how many outcomes you have determined? What companies, what travelers might have failed without the help of some soft, grey woman with a lie for a past?"  
  
"Oh, we really haven't had that much influence..."  
  
"Perhaps not," Elrond sighed. "But how shall I ever know the extent of your influence?"  
  
"Maybe... maybe it's not for you to know," I said, as humbly as I could.  
  
Elrond regarded me for a moment, and then said: "You are probably right – though the idea of any realm of study being forbidden to me is an alien one." He smiled reflectively. "I shall ask no more of you for the moment. Be aware, however, that – Valar willing – you may soon find yourself called to answer for your people once more. You and I, as well as many others, will be presented with some questions far more pressing than the ones I have just asked you."  
  
"My lord," I said, and bowed. He excused me, and I didn't speak to him again until about ten days later.

* * *

It's strange for me to think that this story I'm telling – this experience that became the greatest, most cherished, and also the saddest of all my adventures – was _so very insignificant_ in terms of what was happening in the world at that time. The fate of Middle-earth did not rest in my hands, and it would have been arrogant of me to suggest it. We were all humbled in those years, every one of us; for the Doom of the Free Peoples was not born by an Elf-lord, or a wizard, or a great king or leader of Men. No, our Doom was born by the smallest, the humblest of creatures; one who was carried, unconscious, into Rivendell, some three days after my meeting with Lord Elrond.  
  
How could I have known, upon first seeing the hobbit, that he was the greatest hero of our Age? How could I have guessed that Frodo Baggins brought with him the force that would both bind me to my beloved, and then steal him from me, at last? 


	6. Many Meetings

**Hooray, it's chapter six! I'm having fun with this one... heh heh... Go, my little pseudo-Sue, go!**

* * *

At first I doubted whether there could be any guest whose arrival would cause more of a stir than the wizard's did. He stormed into the haven on the evening of the eighteenth – "stormed" is indeed the right word; the fellow moves about like a gale-force wind – and all of Rivendell was caught in the excitement of his arrival. I, too, witnessed his entrance, and recognized him immediately – this was that same Mithrandir who had so often visited Minas Tirith when I was younger. There was no mistaking him: the image of the bearded, scowling wizard making his way up the streets of the city, a trail of curious children streaming behind him, was one that had been properly etched in my memory. (Of course the children had always followed at a distance; for who knew what nasty sort of creature an irritating youngster might be turned into if he dared challenge the wizard's patience?)  
  
"I must see Lord Elrond immediately!" he'd roared at no one in particular, and naturally one helpful elf or another had escorted him up to the Elf-Lord's chambers. We did not see him again after that until the arrival of the second party, three days later.  
  
There was a sort of thundering sensation through the earth, late on the afternoon of the twentieth of October, though no storm clouds were visible in the clear autumn sky. Sador looked up at me from where he sat, under a tree, flipping through the pages of a book he'd found.  
  
"Did you feel that, Urwen?" he asked, frowning. "Felt like a minor earthquake, don't you think?"  
  
"Yes – how odd," I replied, and began to meander towards the centre of the settlement, hoping to find out what the elves were making of the disturbance. I half expected them not to acknowledge it as a "disturbance" at all, being, as they were, so in tune to the rhythms of the land. I was in for a surprise: elves were hurrying here and there, up and down, whispering to one another in hushed, excited voices.  
  
"Excuse me, but what's happened?" I asked, touching the arm of a passing elf. He simply shook his head by way of a "Not now!", and hurried onward. I cursed quietly to myself – though I doubt whether any of the elves would have noticed, at that hour, had I screamed at the top of my lungs – and was quite convinced, in that moment, that an attack on Rivendell was imminent.  
  
I was just about to run back to my apartment, where I'd left my sword, when Elrond issued suddenly from his great house, his feet seeming to flow over the stairs like water over rocks.  
  
"_Cárarentë!_" he cried to the scurrying elves. "_Cára i cormacolindo!_"  
  
Of course, as I was hopeless at understanding spoken elvish, all I gathered from this was "_They are coming!_", and interpreted it as a reference to the feared Nazgûl. _So, it's going to be a fight, is it?_ I thought, and turned back to warn Sador. From behind me, Elrond cried out, "_Harna ná i cormacolindo!_" – a phrase that was meaningless to me at the time.  
  
I needn't trouble you with a report of my misinformed return to my apartment, nor do I need to recount how I convinced Sador that he ought to arm himself, as the haven was under attack. It wasn't, of course: the Ringwraiths had been foiled at the Ford of Bruinen, thanks to the combined magic of Lord Elrond and Mithrandir. The scurrying about was of course due to the fact that Frodo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire, had fallen unconscious on the east bank of the river. Elrond was well aware of this, and it seemed the other elves had guessed as much based on the uprising of the River Loudwater (for that was the cause of the "earthquake" we had felt). It was not long before a party of elves was seen returning from the direction of the river, bearing a tiny body between them.  
  
_Only a child,_ I thought, upon seeing the body – because of course I had never seen a hobbit, and though I had heard of them, it did not occur to me that this tiny creature might belong to that race.  
  
"Is he alive?" Mithrandir demanded, bursting from the house and making his way through the crowd of elves. "Let me through, confound it all! _Let me through!_"  
  
Elrond was already with the poor fellow, unbuttoning the apparently bloody shirt as another elf cradled the body in his arms.  
  
"Does he yet live?" Mithrandir demanded again, upon reaching the Elf-lord.  
  
Elrond nodded. "Yes – yes, he is alive, but the shadow has very nearly consumed him. We must make haste. Come."  
  
And with that, the two of them escorted their patient into one of the many wooden buildings.  
  
"Is that the whole business, do you think?" Sador wondered, standing beside me and watching the elves disperse.  
  
"It looks like it," I said, perplexed. "I wonder who that little fellow was? He certainly had everyone in a panic."  
  
"Perhaps he's a prince," Sador suggested. "Was he an elf? Did you see?"  
  
"I saw two very hairy feet, actually," I said, with a snort. "And since I've never observed any indication of hairiness in an elf, I'm inclined to doubt he was of their kindred."  
  
Frodo, of course, was not the only newcomer to arrive that evening. Very soon after him came five others: an elf, a Dúnedan ranger, and three more hobbits. Sador and I had positioned ourselves under a tree near the central courtyard of the haven, and so saw them coming.  
  
"Oh, _look_! I've never dreamed... Oh, so many elves!" said one of the small creatures, running to keep up with his taller companions. "Aren't they beautiful? Oh... But I must go to Mister Frodo! I must see him!"  
  
"I must see Lord Elrond, as well," said the ranger, striding quickly into the courtyard and turning in the direction the first, unconscious guest had been carried. He was obviously familiar with the layout of the place.  
  
"Yes – I, too, have things to say to him," the elf said. "You hobbits may come with us. I am certain that you will be satisfied with the care Frodo is receiving."  
  
"Did you ever dream we'd be coming here, Merry? To Rivendell?" whispered one of the other little creatures.  
  
"Hush, Pippin! ...But no, I suppose I didn't – not when we set out, at least," replied his equally small companion, and then they had all disappeared into the darkness of the building.  
  
"Did you hear that, Father? Hobbits!" I exclaimed.  
  
"What? I've never heard of such a thing," Sador said.  
  
"That's what those small people were – hobbits!" I was rather excited about the prospect. Certainly important things were happening if representatives of such a secretive race had shown up in Imladris.  
  
"Well, I'm getting tired," Sador said, yawning. "I've had quite enough excitement, and if you don't mind, I think I'll be going to bed now. I'm sure we'll hear all about this business in the morning."  
  
Despite my biting curiosity, I made myself follow him back to our chambers. He was right – all would most likely be explained in the morning, and at this point we would just be getting in the way if we went to investigate.  
  
_But I shall look into this in the morning,_ I promised myself, as I climbed between my sheets. _I will find out what this is all about!_

* * *

I made good on my promise of going to investigate, awakening very early the next morning and making my way down towards the courtyard before the dew had lifted from the grass. Elves were still about in great numbers, but they were greatly subdued in comparison to the previous night.  
  
"Please," I said to one of the elves, who seemed to be standing guard outside the building into which Elrond had taken the unconscious hobbit, "do you think I might be able to visit the patient? If it isn't too much trouble, of course."  
  
The elf regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded.  
  
"Yes," he said. "You may go and see him, of course – though I shall warn you to stay out of the way of Lord Elrond if you hope to see the hobbit recover."  
  
"Thank you – of course I'll stay out of the way," I assured him, and scampered up the stairs and into the shadows of the building. I guessed the direction I should take based on a process of elimination: Frodo would not be in Elrond's private chambers, nor in the library. He was most likely in the East Wing of the building, to my right – and that was the part of the building I entered into now.  
  
"Did you see him move, Merry? I think I saw him move!"  
  
"Of course he's moving, Pip – he's not dead! But have you seen him open his _eyes_? Now, that's the real question."  
  
Two of the other hobbits I'd seen the previous night were seated on a bench far too high for them, just outside one of the bedchambers. They swung their legs in agitation and peered worriedly into the room.  
  
"Excuse me, sirs, but might I inquire as to whether you're familiar with this Frodo fellow?" I asked, hoping my tone would be considered sufficiently polite by these diminutive men. The looked up at me suddenly, eyes wide and curly hair bouncing.  
  
"Hold on, you're no elf!" said one – _the one called "Pip",_ I thought.  
  
"Does Elrond know you're here?" said the other one, looking about nervously.  
  
"Don't worry yourselves, please – I'm a friend," I said. They regarded me suspiciously, and I came to the conclusion that either their culture or the present circumstances had made them rather distrustful of strangers.  
  
"You dress a lot like Strider. Are you a ranger?" the first hobbit – "Pip" – asked me.  
  
"Who? ...Wait, never mind – I'm a ranger of sorts, but probably not the sort you'd run into in these parts," I said.  
  
"What's your name, then?" the other one – Merry – asked me.  
  
I hesitated for a moment, then decided I ought to be honest with the little fellows. What harm could they do, after all?  
  
"Tanneth," I said. "Well... Urwen, as well, but I prefer Tanneth."  
  
"Where're you from?" he demanded, still regarding me somewhat suspiciously.  
  
"From the South," I said vaguely. "I was sent here – Lord Elrond wanted my services, for one reason or another."  
  
"She's not dangerous, then!" Pip said, elbowing Merry. "If Elrond trusts her –"  
  
"Hush!" Merry said, and it became evident in my mind that he was the thinker between them. He looked up at me. "What do you know about Frodo?"  
  
"About Frodo?" I said, and frowned. "Well, hardly anything at all. I know he's a hobbit, and I know his name – and perhaps not even his full name, at that."  
  
Merry seemed to be attempting to search my thoughts with his eyes.  
  
"Nothing else?" he asked, carefully. "You don't know why he's here, or why he's hurt?"  
  
"No – that's why I came to see him. I was curious," I said. Merry seemed to accept this.  
  
"We're his cousins," he told me. "We've come all the way from the Shire, and a very unpleasant journey it's been! I now know why they say it's best not to go wandering about in the outside world – a dreadful place, it is!"  
  
"Even Rivendell?" I wondered, curious as to what these creatures regarded as "pleasant".  
  
"Well, perhaps Rivendell is nice enough," Merry admitted, "though we haven't seen much of it yet."  
  
"What are your names, then?" I asked. "Or are you just called 'Merry' and 'Pip'?"  
  
"Certainly not!" "Pip" snorted. "My name is Peregrin Took – and that's a great old family, that is – though mostly folks just call me Pippin. This is Meriadoc Brandybuck – you've heard him called 'Merry', and he doesn't mind that at all."  
  
"I don't," Merry confirmed.  
  
"Well, I'm very pleased to meet you, Merry and Pippin," I said. "I wonder if you could tell me, though, what's the matter with your cousin?"  
  
Merry shifted uneasily. "I don't know whether we ought to tell you that. It's been touch-and-go for Frodo, you see, since we got here, and we haven't had a chance to talk much to Elrond, or Gandalf, or even Strider, for that matter. I don't know how much we're allowed to reveal about... present matters."  
  
"Well," I huffed. "Can you at least tell me if they think he'll recover from... from whatever it is that's wrong with him?"  
  
"I think Elrond will take care of it," Pippin said. "And Gandalf's there, too – surely they'll be able to figure something out, between them."  
  
"Take a look for yourself, if you want," Merry suggested, gesturing towards the doorway of the bedroom.  
  
I approached it quietly and peered inside. Despite the quiet, there were indeed a lot of people in that room: Frodo lay beneath the sheets, pale as death, and Elrond sat at his left. The Elf-lord appeared to have his fingers pressed into a wound on the hobbit's shoulder, as though he were searching about for something in the torn flesh. Another hobbit sat on Frodo's right, stroking his hand gently and whispering to him. Other elves moved about silently, apparently preparing ointments and compounds. Mithrandir – or... what was it the hobbits had called him? Gandalf, that was it – sat in a corner, his eyes closed tight in concentration.  
  
"Well!" I said quietly. "This is certainly no ordinary wound, or they would have had him patched up and on his way by now."  
  
"It's those Dark Riders..." Pippin began, and then stopped when Merry glared at him, shaking his head frantically. I decided to pretend I hadn't heard.  
  
"Who's that other hobbit – the one who stays there beside Frodo?" I asked.  
  
"That's Samwise Gamgee, his gardener," Merry said.  
  
"His _gardener_? Why, I would have said they were friends, good friends – equals, I mean."  
  
"Well, they are friends," Merry said. "But Sam would never consider himself Frodo's equal! No, they're servant and master, through and through – though there's love between them, as well."  
  
"Excuse me..." came a gruff voice from behind me, and a man pressed by me and into the room. He stopped halfway in, though, and turned back to take another look at me, apparently realizing suddenly that I wasn't an elf. He was no elf, either – he was the Dúnedan ranger from the previous night.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.  
  
"No one," I said automatically, and he narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm sorry – I am _someone_, of course – I'm a guest of Elrond's."  
  
"She's Tanneth," Pippin supplied.  
  
"Have you told her anything?" the ranger demanded of the hobbits.  
  
"No, nothing!" Merry protested. "Honestly, we haven't."  
  
The ranger directed his gaze at me once more, and I was shocked at the depth of his eyes and the noble bearing of his countenance – here was a man who did not shy from confrontations with strangers.  
  
"Wait here a moment," he said, and strode into the room. He came up behind Elrond and whispered something into the Elf-lord's ear. Elrond nodded slightly, never turning his gaze from Frodo. I saw his lips move in a reply, and then the ranger was returning in my direction.  
  
"Excuse me," he said. "It seems you are indeed welcome here. However, if you were aware of the circumstances, I'm sure you would appreciate my caution."  
  
"I do," I assured him, then said hurriedly, "Well, I don't fully understand what's happened, but I don't mind you being suspicious of me, either. It's nothing personal, I'm sure."  
  
"Indeed it isn't," the ranger sighed, and leaned back against the doorframe. He rubbed his forehead wearily. "We had a close call – a very close call. We're all feeling a bit shaken up."  
  
I turned to gaze at Frodo, who was mumbling something through the darkness of his unconscious state. "I'm sure he'll be alright," I said, assuming the ranger had been talking about Frodo's injury. "Elrond's the best healer Frodo could have. If he can't save him, no one can."  
  
The man's brow creased in worry. "Yes – yes, that's true, of course. But somehow... Somehow I can't believe that this will be the end of it," he muttered. That statement took a moment to sink in, but before I could ask him what he meant, he said "Excuse me," again, and headed back down the corridor.  
  
"That's Strider, of course," Pippin said.  
  
"Strider?" I snorted. That was no proper name for one of the Dúnedain – it appeared I wasn't the only one who was being kept in the dark.  
  
It's so odd for me, now, to think back on that day. It's so strange to think that there was a time when they didn't trust me, when I didn't know their names, when I hadn't met... Well. I'll save the rest of the story for another time.

* * *

**I don't mean to sound like a feedback junkie, but PLEASE REVIEW! Come on, people. You know it makes my day. Ten points to anybody who does! An extra ten points to anybody who can translate what Elrond was saying near the beginning of the chapter! (Minus ten points for anybody who says my elvish sucks... Just kidding, luvs.) FLAMES WELCOME!!**


	7. More Meetings, and a Last Arrival

In all, Frodo Baggins was unconscious in Rivendell for four nights and three days. He awoke on the twenty-fourth of October, in the year 3018 of the Third Age. Those who have some knowledge of history will recognize this date for the fact that it was the eve of the meeting that was eventually recognized as one of the great turning points of our time.  
  
Of course, I was not present when Frodo returned to us from the shadow. Gandalf alone – for by then I thought of him as "Gandalf" rather than "Mithrandir", as the three hobbits called him by the former name – was with him when his eyes opened at long last. Lord Elrond had left Frodo the previous night, claiming that the wound was healed and that all we had left to do was to wait. Frodo proved to be a model patient: I don't believe even the elves expected him to recover as quickly as he did.  
  
I was sitting with Sador and Sam in the gardens to the east of the main compound when we received the news. Samwise Gamgee was indeed the most loyal of servants I'd ever met – we Elignias might learn something from such steadfast love and devotion. He had stayed at his master's side through days and nights of tortuous moaning and muttering, clutching the cold hand of his sick friend and trying to keep his gaze from straying to that wicked black wound on Frodo's shoulder. Naturally, he'd been sent to get some rest once Elrond thought Frodo cured, and so Sam had spent the night in a bed for the first time in days. Upon awakening, however, my father and I had been the first people he'd come across, and – perhaps out of a certain disorientation brought on by grief; perhaps out of a desperate desire for companionship, any sort of companionship – he'd decided to sit with us and pass the early hours of the morning in the company of Men.  
  
"My dear Master Frodo," he sighed repeatedly, wringing his thick little hands. "Oh, how I hope he does come through..."  
  
"I'm sure he will," I told him, doing my best to sound confident despite the fact that I knew nothing of Frodo's present condition. "If Lord Elrond has left him, he's most certainly doing a lot better."  
  
"I don't doubt Urwen's right," Sador agreed. "You trust them elves, Samwise Gamgee. They're far wiser than any of us could ever hope to be."  
  
Sam rocked nervously, back and forth, back and forth. "I know... I do know. It's just... Oh, why did it have to happen? Why did any of this have to happen? Frodo never did anything wrong in all his life! Where's the justice in it? Why... why must _he_ be the one to suffer?"  
  
I didn't pretend to have the words to satisfy the poor hobbit. "I don't know, Sam," I sighed. "I just don't know. That's the way of the world, and we can't begin to explain it. I'm sure Frodo will be happy again, in time. His life won't be _all_ suffering."  
  
Sam hung his head and sniffled, hiding tears with a hand over his eyes. I rubbed his back, gently, not knowing what else to do, and felt the vibrations of his sobs through the tightly-knit wool of his jacket.  
  
You can appreciate the joy inspired in us when Gandalf came with his news. He strolled by on the garden path, humming happily to himself and swatting absently at the last flies of autumn with his great old hat.  
  
"Well, Samwise Gamgee, you'll be happy to hear your master has come back to us at last – though you needn't bother him; he's gone back to sleep," the wizard added, as Sam jumped to his feet. "Yes, it's good news, very good news. I've told him what happened, and he seemed quite sensible to me. How extraordinary! To think a person could recover so fully from the stab of a Morgul blade, and so quickly! Even Elrond did not suspect it, I've no doubt – though indeed he provided Frodo with the best care imaginable. His care was perhaps the most important factor in our friend's recovery, and for that we owe him a great debt of gratitude."  
  
"Strider helped him too, sir," Sam said, shuffling his feet.  
  
"Yes, of course. Strider helped you all," Gandalf agreed. "But I am surprised to hear these words coming from you, of all creatures! Why, your 'Strider' informed me that you did not trust him at all, upon meeting him."  
  
"Well, we were all afraid," Sam huffed. "And how were we to know he wasn't a servant of the Dark Lord? Him with all his shadows, and smoke... Of course I trust Strider now, Gandalf; I trust him more than I do many hobbits. But I don't think it would have been wise –"  
  
"No, indeed, it would not have been wise to trust any stranger who crossed your path," Gandalf conceded. "You did well to be suspicious, Sam. You protected your master, and his burden, and now you shall be rewarded for it. Frodo has recovered, and you'll soon be free to wait on him, hand and foot, once more."  
  
Sam looked as though he might collapse with joy, and I had to smile for him. Gandalf looked at last to Sador and me.  
  
"And you – you would be the representative of the Elignias," he guessed (or perhaps knew – one can never tell with wizards).  
  
"At your service," I said, bowing slightly, and doing my best to hide my surprise at being recognized.  
  
He regarded me thoughtfully. "How went your passage northward? You did, I assume, have a long journey – unless, of course, you were already on errantry in Eriador."  
  
"Yes, we came a long way," I said. "It was a wearisome journey, but safe, for the most part." I planned not to tell him of our encounter with the orcs; we Elignias are not supposed to tell of our exploits, especially those that might win us glory or renown.  
  
Sador foiled my plan, of course. "Safe! We were nearly killed," he snorted. "Bloody goblins in the Gap of Rohan! They came at us in the dark – blasted creatures! If we'd been traveling on foot I doubt we'd have survived."  
  
Gandalf's already creased brow furrowed further. "In the Gap of Rohan? Ah, yes... I feared as much. You are lucky indeed, then, to have survived! I do not doubt that a veritable army of orcs was within a day's ride of the road."  
  
I stared. "What? But... where could they have hidden? Wouldn't they have been spotted by the wizard in Isengard?"  
  
Gandalf sighed. "These things and more will be explained in due time. For now, let us be grateful for the fact that our dear Frodo has returned to us, and that his burden remains with him – and, of course, that your matron had the good sense to send you here," he added, nodding at me.  
  
"Oh... yes, thank you," I stammered, not knowing what else to say. The wizard nodded stiffly, and was off.  
  
"What'd he mean, 'representative of'... of whatever it was he said?" Sam wondered, staring up at me.  
  
"Never you mind for the moment, Sam," I said. "I'm sure you've more pressing matters in your head than unearthing my history."  
  
Sam hardly bowed goodbye before scampering off – it seemed he'd momentarily forgotten his master's recent recovery (a shocking suggestion), and now hoped to make up for his crime by arriving at Frodo's side just as soon as he could.  
  
"Well, I'm glad to hear the little fellow's alright," Sador said, stretching. "I have no idea who he is or why he's here – or even what was really wrong with him – but I'm glad he's doing better."  
  
"Me too," I agreed, though my thoughts were elsewhere. These people who knew Frodo kept speaking of a burden – but of what nature? A physical burden? An emotional one? Could Frodo have been carrying information, or perhaps some elvish artifact? I'd guessed, at least, that these feared Nazgûl had been the ones responsible for his grave injury – everyone kept speaking of "Dark Riders", after all – but I had no idea whatsoever what they had wanted with a seemingly harmless little hobbit, away in the North. _Well,_ I thought, _whatever it was, Frodo's safe here – they won't soon be getting their hands on him or his "burden".  
_  
It was a little later than noon when an elf informed Sador and me that there was to be a feast that evening, in honour of Frodo's recovery. Both of us were invited, but I planned not to attend the celebration: festivities had always made me feel out of place. I decided my time would be better spent reading, or perhaps stretching my leg a little – my hamstring still bothered me from time to time.  
  
"But you must go!" Sador protested, when I informed him of my plans. "This is unthinkably rude! When your host invites you to a meal, you are obliged to attend it!"  
  
"Father, this has nothing to do with me," I said plainly. "This is for Frodo and his friends, and everyone who helped him. I won't be missed, I can promise you that."  
  
"I don't care," Sador huffed. "Lord Elrond will be insulted if you turn him down – and for no good reason, at that!" He scoffed. "Reading, and stretching your leg? Honestly, girl, have you no self-respect?"  
  
"Not as much as you'd think," I said wearily. "But if _you_ want me to go, Father, then I suppose I shall."  
  
"You should not need my bidding to show common courtesy," he muttered, and then left me, mumbling something along the lines of "I thought I'd raised you better..." as he went.  
  
This left me in a bit of a fix. I had nothing appropriate to wear, only my old traveling clothes. There are advantages and disadvantages to maintaining a vow of poverty: on the upside, one can travel fast and light; on the downside, one risks incurring the wrath of Elf-lords when one is forced to attend their banquets in mud-encrusted clothing. In the end I rubbed off as much of the muck as I could with one of Goldwine's brushes, and hoped that the banquet hall would be poorly lit.  
  
The bells summoned us to the feast, and I hung close to Sador, hoping to blend in somehow amongst all the beautiful, tall elves. I suppose I did, to some extent – at least, no one was particularly interested in me when they had so many of the high and noble creatures to gape at. Sador and I were seated at one of the side-tables, and good fortune saw us placed next to the three hobbits – Sam, Merry and Pippin – whose acquaintance I'd recently made. Sam, of course, did not want leave his master and had insisted that he be allowed to wait on Frodo. However, the dear hobbit had been informed that he was a guest of honour, and would be treated as such – a treatment that seemed to him more of a punishment than a reward.  
  
"Sam has always been a bit muddled," Pippin quipped. "Why in the world would he want dodder about like a servant when he could be sitting in splendour, like a king?"  
  
Personally, I was more interested in Frodo than Sam – until then I had never seen him awake, and he was indeed a fascinating creature to behold. He had a lovely face, more shapely and elvish than his friends', and his cheeks were rosy despite his recent illness. He was subdued and somewhat tired-looking, but seemed content in his placement next to a Dwarf-lord and within sight of the Elf-lords at the head of the central table.  
  
I, too, was more than content in their company. I wanted nothing better than to sit and admire the beautiful beings who had found it in themselves to suffer my presence in their halls. Elrond himself sat at the head of the great table, and he was, as ever, a tall and glorious creature, his black hair framing his slender, noble face as night frames a star. Beside him sat Gandalf, who – despite his homely appearance – proved himself greater than the majority of the lovely elves simply by the fact that he occupied this place of honour. A golden Elf-lord sat opposite the wizard, and I recognized him as the one who had arrived at Rivendell along with Strider and the hobbits. All were great, all were glorious; all made me feel very small and rustic in comparison.  
  
There was another elf, though, whose beauty eclipsed the grace of the high elves at the head of the table. She it was who sat beneath a canopy, her ebony hair sparkling with the gems of her silver-lace cap; she it was who could somehow wear a grey dress so that it shimmered with all the colours of the spectrum. If Elrond's face was a star in the night, hers was all the stars in the heavens shining from the blackness of infinity. I couldn't look at her long without beginning to feel as though I ought not to count myself as female – for how could I compete, when such was the standard of beauty and grace? I sighed. If I had been the husband-seeking type, I might have given up right then.  
  
I have no recollection of what we ate that evening. The meal seemed to pass swiftly, and when it was done we followed Elrond and the beautiful elf- maiden into a separate room. This was a warmer place, one that – to me, at least – felt more like home and less like a foreign land. I stood by the wall as Sador mingled with the elves; I listened vaguely to songs and thought how nice it would be to just lie down and fall asleep. I might have done so, at that, but an elf came up beside me all of a sudden and provided me with fresh food for thought.  
  
"Your attendance is requested at a meeting, which will take place tomorrow morning," he whispered in my ear. "You are to come alone, when the bell rings, to the porch outside the east wing of the Great House. All will be explained at that time." He was gone before I could turn to look at him.  
  
"Well, this is all very nice!" I muttered to myself, and crossed my arms – though in fact I was not irritated in the least. How fascinating, how conspiratorial – a secret meeting, and I was invited! It would take some thinking to get Sador off my tail, however.  
  
I returned to my apartment at a late hour, the unidentified elf's words still floating about at the forefront of my mind when I lay down between the sheets. Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps I ate more than I remember; for whatever reason, I slept long and deeply that night, despite my curiosity. It is a fact that surprises me to this day.

* * *

Some time in the dark of that night, a man arrived in Rivendell after a very long and arduous journey from the South. I was asleep, and so missed him entirely. How, then, can there be sense in Men, if I could lie in oblivious slumber through such an event? Eru, I believe, did not put enough effort into ensuring the sensibility of Men when He created them.

* * *

**Well, that's that for a couple of weeks... I'm going on holiday and won't be writing for a while. Please review!! **

**In case anyone was wondering, Elrond's words in the previous chapter meant: **

> **_They are coming! _[Lit: Coming (plural, present, with third person plural pronoun ending)]**
> 
> **_The Ring-bearer is coming! _[Lit: Coming is(singular, present) the Ring-bearer!]**
> 
> **_The Ring-bearer is wounded! _[Lit: Wounded (adjective) is (singular, present) the Ring-bearer!]**

**Now get to it, all youse mugs! Review like crazy!**


	8. The Council of Elrond

**Sorry about the delay! Here's chapter eight – the long-awaited council! WOOT WOOT! ... and extra-long to make up for its late arrival. This chapter is kind of serious-like, and I had to quote the book rather a lot. Sorry about that! I swear that it won't be the format for future chapters; you'll be getting nothing but new material.**

**Sorry about the lack of dialogue in the first half of the chapter; I might change that later, but to me it seemed too long already.**

**Just some quick shout-outs: **

**Catta-mese: Ack! Do you know how terrified I was when you said in your first review that you trusted me not to do anything too uncanon?? I actually considered changing the plotline... But thank you for sticking with it! I promise Tanneth will not overshadow anyone or steal anybody's thunder.**

**Galatyn Renner: Glad you like it! And keep up that story of yours – it's good stuff!**

**Hooloovoo: I don't believe you actually read this. Bad friend. No biscuit.**

**Dread Lady Freya: WOOT! Thanks for always reviewing; you're the best!**

**Nymredil: Thanks so much for the wonderful review!! If I was allowed to advertise other fics in this story I would tell everyone to go read _The Mind's Entanglement_, but that would be wrong... so I won't. ;)**

**ALSO THANKS TO...**

**Oracle, sapphire2988, madzles, crazyrabidfangurl, Adsol, Voldie, Ruwne, elven-dreamer and jujubee!! YOU GUYS ROCK MY SOCKS!! I would give you all individual messages but this chapter is way too long already...**

* * *

In the days before I was initiated into permanent adherence to the Code of the Elignias, I never left the compound, but spent all my time cleaning, cooking, and tending to the various sick or injured men left in our care. It was the last of these tasks that taught me to wake early, without bidding. A sick man, you see, becomes obsessive-compulsive: his body is in disarray, and the last ordered thing in his life to which he can cling is his schedule. He expects you to turn him, to tactfully clean his sheets, to bring him breakfast at exactly the same time every day. If you fail at this, he becomes miserable and frustrated with you, and a miserable man _cannot_ heal, no matter the high price of the ointment you rub into his chest every evening.

It was only natural, therefore, that on the morning of the twenty-fifth of October, in the year thirty-eighteen of the Third Age, I awoke minutes after dawn despite my late evening the previous night. There was a brief moment of pleasant, floating obliviousness during which I hadn't the faintest idea why I shouldn't simply shut my eyes and float off to sleep once more. And then the memory resurfaced – "_Your attendance is requested at a meeting..._" I was out of bed in an instant.

I tugged on my clothes – the same ones I wore every day – reflecting all the while that I really ought to give them a thorough washing after the business today. Sprinkling chalk powder to absorb the smell simply doesn't do the job after more than a month.

Sador snorted in his sleep in the next room in the small guests' apartment, and for a moment I paused. He certainly wouldn't be happy about being forced to spend the day alone – but then, how long would this meeting actually _be_? Perhaps not more than an hour or two, in which case I wouldn't pity him. But if it lasted all day...? I sighed. Well, it was time Sador put his shyness towards the elves to rest, after all.

I meandered out into the small courtyard that our building embraced on three sides. The grass crumpled under my boots, and it occurred to me that in order to enjoy the _real _elf-haven experience, one must walk barefoot. I pulled off my boots, set them near the doorway, and wandered about in naked-soled ecstasy. _Today will be a good day,_ I decided, and smiled at nothing in particular.

But how to distract Sador...? To tell him the truth would not be in keeping with the conspiratorial nature I wished to bestow upon this secret meeting. I could suggest he go for a hike, but he'd want me to accompany him. I might introduce him to one of the elves or hobbits, but who knew whether he might become bored of the new friend within an hour and proceed to seek me out? How embarrassing it would be for him to interrupt a secret meeting out of childish boredom!

In the end I decided that I would find a book in the library – one in Adûnaic, a language Sador's better-educated mother had taught him as a child – and would ask him to translate it for me. That would surely fill the greater part of his day, and (as such work always did) would make him too sleepy to come and look for me. If this failed, however, I'd simply have to tell him to entertain himself and not to go looking for me. He hadn't actually been invited to Imladris, after all – what right did he have to complain over a lack of entertainment?

My plans ended up, surprisingly, working perfectly. When Sador did at last wake up, he complained that his head hurt and that he wouldn't be up to much today. With no reluctance whatsoever, I found him a comfortable couch to lie on and presented him with a pile of unread books. He thanked me and apologized for his condition. Naturally, I forgave him graciously, humbly dismissing his praise and courteously allowing him to believe that he had the sweetest, most generous daughter in all the world.

The bell rang at last. It certainly seemed a long time coming: anticipation – in me, at least – does not inspire patience. I hurried, in as dignified a manner as I could manage, to the porch I'd been told of the previous evening, and despite my haste I was apparently one of the last to arrive. I took one of the only remaining seats and glanced about me.

It took seconds – if not less – for me to decide that I'd been invited into company far above my station. Not only was Elrond present, but so was the golden elf who'd sat near him the previous night, along with another high-looking elf I'd never seen before, and a company of dark-haired Eldar. Gandalf was there as well, as were Frodo and another hobbit – a very aged on – whom I didn't recognize. The Dúnedan ranger – the one called Strider – was also present, and near him sat yet another elf. This one was different than the others, less golden and luminous and more wild and earthy. He was younger, I suspected, but that wasn't the only thing – his semi-translucent skin was tinged with the mysterious greenish shadows of the Silvan elves. Two dwarves sat side by side, one of them the very one who'd sat next to Frodo the previous evening, and the other apparently younger and of lower rank. And then there was another man, one I hadn't seen before. This was surprising, as men stand out like sore thumbs among the elves of Rivendell. He was certainly a nobleman of the South, judging by his garb, but his clothes were muddy and faded, as though he'd traveled a very long way in them. Something in his face was vaguely familiar. I watched him finger his beard a moment, noting the distracted, inward look in his eyes. _Perhaps he knows the reason for our secretive gathering, _I reflected.

It seemed I'd no sooner sat down than Elrond began introducing the members of our council. Frodo himself was the first to be mentioned, as "Frodo son of Drogo", and his companion was known as Bilbo Baggins. The golden elf was Glorfindel – the one who, I remembered, had chased the Nazgûl from the Bridge of Mitheithel – and the other high elf was introduced as Galdor, an envoy from Círdan the Shipwright. The elves with these two were various counselors of Elrond's house, the greatest of whom was known as Erestor. The Silvan elf was called Legolas, and was introduced as the son of Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood. _A prince, then,_ I thought, impressed in spite of myself.

"And this," Elrond continued, "is Urwen Tanneth of the Elignias of Belfalas, who has come this great distance at the bidding of her matron, Philindraphar the Wise."

For a moment I actually looked about, trying to guess who he'd introduced, before realizing it was _me_. I blushed ridiculously and managed nothing more than a curt nod in acknowledgement of the introduction.

Elrond then seemed for some reason to aim the last introduction at Gandalf, a curious fact which I continue to contemplate to this day.

"Here," he said, referring to the southern nobleman, "is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived in the grey morning, and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions will be answered."

I hardly heard the end of the introduction. Boromir, son of Denethor! The heir to the Stewardship of Gondor! I'd seen him before, at that, in parade – but then his head had always been hidden beneath a helmet, which disguised its shape and shadowed his eyes. No wonder his face had seemed familiar, though: every steward's statue in Minas Tirith had that face, one with a nobility of bearing to rival Strider's. (For I did not realize until later that the ranger was the only one among us to remain anonymous at that time.) I peered at Boromir curiously, but his eyes were fixed on Frodo and Bilbo.

"We have much to discuss," Elrond went on, "and before the day is through the fate of many may be decided. However, let us begin by addressing the state of our lands, beginning with the South."

There were a few silent seconds before I realized they were all looking at me. _Oh, is that why I'm here?_ I thought.

"Yes... Well," I began. "Perhaps I'm not the one to talk about political matters – you ought to have someone more official, perhaps from the Prince – but I've seen security measures becoming increasingly tight, that much is certain. There're Corsairs threatening the coast – I know that for a fact, and the Prince is building up the defenses in the river towns as well as the coastal ones..."

I was made to talk for what seemed like ages on this topic, with Elrond, Gandalf and the other elves questioning me repeatedly until my stores of information were deemed utterly exhausted. I don't mind saying it was a stressful process; we Elignias are not accustomed to being centres of attention. I was extremely grateful when the talk finally turned to the subject of the dwarves' encounter with one of the Nazgûl, which, though fascinating, is best described by Frodo in his own writing.

And then _the_ question – why we were here at all – began to be answered. Elrond it was who introduced the topic of the One Ring, and though I knew nothing of the subject to begin with, the very mention of the thing made my stomach clench uncomfortably. I listened to the Elf-lord's account of the Battle of the Last Alliance, in which he fought beside Gil-Galad and saw Sauron overthrown.

"... and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword, and took it for his own," Elrond stated, his grey eyes dark with terrible memory.

"So that is what became of the Ring!" Boromir interjected, suddenly animated. "If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tidings indeed."

Frodo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and I noticed Gandalf watching him with half-disguised concern. The hobbit _did_ listen to the continuation of Elrond's story – I was sure of it – but he seemed to want to collapse into himself, shrinking back into the wood of the chair. I pretended not to have noticed the little fellow's discomfort, and directed my attention towards Elrond, who was now speaking of the role of the Men of the South in the containment of Sauron in Mordor. Presently, the Elf-lord finished his speech, and silence descended upon our Council.

Then Boromir stood began to speak. In this case as well, Frodo has already documented his words far better than I could, and so I shall leave you to seek out a copy of his work. I was more taken with the man's manner of speaking than with the actual words: he paced and shifted, gesturing with his hands and making eye contact with no one in particular. I sensed a sort of inner excitement in him, or perhaps even torment.

"... a dream came to my brother in a troubled sleep; and afterwards a like dream came oft to him again, and once to me," he explained, pacing and gesturing, then covering his mouth with his hand as though the thought he expressed was a complicated one. "In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice..."

I was never a great believer in prophecy, but to hear the words from _his_ mouth – to hear his voice, so obviously unaccustomed to poetry – working its way around the words he'd heard in a dream, I could not doubt the sincerity of the message. _Seek for the Sword that was broken; In Imladris it dwells..._ My brow wrinkled pensively. The son of the Steward was summoned here by a dream, I by a premonition of my matron... Great deeds were near at hand, this much was obvious.

Strider then stood and cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond. It clattered against the stone, cloven in two. He then seemed to echo the words of Boromir's prophecy: "And here in the House of Elrond more shall be made clear to you. Here is the Sword that was Broken!"

If this had been the greatest surprise of the day, it would have been enough.

"What, in the charge of a ranger?" I spoke aloud.

"Who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" asked Boromir, apparently thinking along the same lines.

"He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk," Elrond said solemnly.

"But then he is the rightful King of Gondor!" I cried, too surprised to contain myself. "For centuries the land has been kingless, ruled over by the Stewards, and all along there have been kings away in hiding to the North!"

Frodo started, and jumped up. "Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!" he exclaimed. Though I had no idea what _it_ was, for the first time in my life I began to have the inklings of a premonition, and it was by no means a pleasant one.

"At this moment in history I am nothing more than a ranger," Aragorn said to me, his gaze sharp and steady, but hinting at something deeper – _loss, reluctance?_ "I would have you treat me as such. And, Frodo – it does not belong to either of us." Here he paused as though something had suddenly occurred to him. "... but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while," he finished.

And at last Gandalf spoke.

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo."

The One Ring is easy enough to describe in a physical sense. A gold hoop, a shining circuit, a yellow band. If one were to make a perfect replica, not even the most minor of princes would give this reproduction a second glance. The Ring is beautiful, genius, perfectly humble and perfectly glorious. The hole in it, the emptiness, is the weapon: it's the part that you fall forward into, tipping without realizing it into the calm, warm waters of surrender – no... Not the emptiness; the gold is more beautiful: the shine, the reflection – it's a liquid thing, painfully, shyly exquisite, virginal, begging to be pressed against flesh...

I am Man, then. Frodo held the thing between his fingers and the world lurched into an illogical whirlpool. It was like a dream – or after that time I was hit over the head with the side of an axe, and for days I couldn't tell whether someone was actually speaking to me or if it was all my imagination. A part of my brain – somewhere in the back – that had apparently remained dormant until that moment in my life sparked into animation while the rest of my mind floated in bewildered delirium. Strange thought patterns. Heat. Desire. A sick feeling numbed by an insubstantial drug. Evil. Ambition. Desperation and confusion. ...None of these at all; only dreamy satisfaction.

_The Ring is Evil!_

Thank Eru for the voice of reason. Now I had a weapon with which to counter this drunken lust. I closed my eyes and repeated those four words to myself, drowning out the salacious voice at the back of my brain. The Ring could give me nothing. Nothing! I had to remember that I had no desires, no ambitions, I was no one. I would be swept away in the sands of the ages, and that was all I wanted: to be good, and then to be forgotten.

Dim voices were speaking. How, how could they go on so sanely when _that thing_ was right there in front of them? They were talking about something ridiculously banal – Aragorn's kingship? The role of the Dúnedain? Then it was the hobbit, Bilbo, speaking, and then Frodo – I couldn't listen; their stories were too long, and totally irrelevant. And now it was Gandalf, speaking of Saruman – Saruman become evil. _So we are all to fall,_ I despaired. _It will all go dark, the world is spent, resistance is futile..._

_...No!_ I shook my head. The Ring was too clever; it had assumed a new voice in me. It would defeat me by destroying my hope. I clutched at my hair. _Why didn't it end? Why wouldn't they just let me go?_

_Now they speak of a creature from Bilbo's tale, Gollum, and now the green elf – Legolas, that's it – says he's escaped..._ I listened distractedly, as though not involved. I was terrified and sick. I had no place here.

_Now they speak of a new creature, a man in the wood, who was stronger than the Ring... Stronger than all the world, then! ... And he would not take it? Then he deserves to die in flames and torment! Coward and traitor! _

But even this was the voice of the Ring! It had disguised itself even in my hatred of the thing itself! Never did I think violent thoughts, never did I wish death or pain upon anyone... Never had I been so acutely aware of my own weakness.

Now the elf – Erestor – was speaking:

"...there are but two courses, as Glorfindel already has declared: to hide the Ring forever, or to unmake it..."

_No,_ came a voice again, _there is another choice..._ I clenched my teeth and refused to even _imagine_ using the Ring.

And at last Elrond's voice:

"We must send the Ring to the Fire."

A burden lifted in me. _Yes._ There is a way to end it. A long journey, and then goodbye. _It will be alright, after all._

But Boromir was shifting in his seat, still eyeing Frodo.

"I do not understand all this," he muttered. "Saruman is a traitor, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem."

"But that is the Ring speaking!" I cried – for the voice, though it came from his mouth, was all too familiar. "Can you not feel its evil in you? Resist, and do not translate its whispers into words for all to hear!"

The son of the Steward glared at me. "It is of my own thoughts I speak, and no evil of Sauron's! It has no power over us here!" He twisted in his seat, clutching at a horn on his lap. "A weapon is a weapon, whether it be sword or Ring. Those who have the will may wield it, and cowards and weaklings with fear in their hearts will fall before it!"

I couldn't help but assume he alluded to me at the end of his speech. The mood was tense now, and Frodo looked between me and Boromir, and then at Gandalf.

Elrond took his turn. _We cannot use the Ruling Ring..._ _I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I will not take the Ring to weild it._ And then Gandalf: _Nor I._ Boromir had been sinking deeper into his seat through the elf's speech, looking spiteful, almost childish. When Gandalf put an end to the matter, the man bowed his head. _So be it._

And then there was talk of the other rings. The Three were in hiding. The Seven were lost. The Nine were corrupted, no more than shackles about the twisted fingers of the Wraith Kings. But here was the One, and the One must be... I couldn't even think the word.

Who was to take the Ring? Bilbo offered, taking responsibility for bringing it into our lives. Boromir laughed, but only for a moment. The hobbit was braver than any of us, after all. Gandalf turned down the suggestion, however – Bilbo's role had been played out in its entirety, in his opinion. Someone else would have to come forward.

The silence was painful. Only Bilbo was free from the guilt of cowardice, being the only one to have already offered himself up for the task. I twisted my toes – only then did I realize I still wasn't wearing my boots – and waited. I would _not_ offer my services as the Ring-bearer. If I had learned anything today, it was that I was nowhere _near_ strong enough to remain stable and sane in close proximity to the One Ring.

Of course anyone who reads this knows how it ends. Among the greatest of the Great of that age, among elves and leaders of Men and a wizard of the ancient world, a tiny voice spoke out.

"I will take the Ring," said Frodo, "though I do not know the way."

* * *

**That's it for now!! Yes, I know that in the book the only people who were introduced were the ones Frodo didn't already know, but I thought he might have changed that in his own version of the story to disguise the fact that Tanneth was there... clever little hobbit. **

**Now it's time to review!! Get to it!!**


End file.
